


Object of Unknown Origin

by elyssblair



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Coffee Shops, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 05:32:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elyssblair/pseuds/elyssblair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dalton Grant has no memory of his life beyond waking up in the hospital three months ago. With no history and no remembered skills, he took the first job that came along. Unfortunately, being a barista means dealing with snotty, gluten-free teens, a cute regular who barely speaks to him, and the occasional gun-toting goon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Object of Unknown Origin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lilpocketninja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilpocketninja/gifts).



Dalton Grant curled his lip at the teenage couple in front of the cafe's pastry display case. They'd been giggling and flirting and getting their grubby, smudgy finger prints all over the glass for the past ten minutes. Which meant he'd have to clean it. Again.

To keep from growling a demand that they make a selection or get out, he scrubbed harder at a non-existent spot on the counter he was currently wiping down. He only had thirty more minutes before he could kick everyone out, flip the close sign and be blessedly alone once again.

"Excuse me, what's in the walnut-cranberry muffin?"

He paused, tried to count to ten and gave up after three. "Walnuts. And cranberries."

The girl stared at him like she expected him to know, much less be able to recite the entire ingredient list. He sold the damn things, he didn't bake them.

When her eyes narrowed and her bottom lip jutted out in a pout, the boy cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Uh, I think she was wondering if they're, um, gluten-free?"

Grant let the sneer twist his lips. Seven and half hours was his limit of stupid questions. "Does the card next to it say it's gluten-free?"

The girl continued to glare at him, but the boy glanced at the case, filled with brightly colored little signs declaring which items were gluten or dairy or soy or nut free.

"Uh, no. It doesn't."

Grant shrugged. "Then I guess it's not."

He moved to wipe the side counter, deliberately turning away from them.

He heard the girl inhale, almost felt the burn of her fury on his back. His muscles didn't even flex. A spoiled adolescent's anger didn't register a tick on the over-developed self-preservation instincts he'd acquired somewhere. He really wished he could remember where. He really wished he remembered _anything_ that happened before he woke up in the hospital three months ago.

 Still, her boyfriend managed to distract her before she launched into a shrieking tantrum Grant would have to tune out.

"There's a Starbuck's around the corner. They're sure to have gluten-free muffins. And better customer service.

Grant rolled his eyes when he heard the door jingle violently after they slammed out. Like he cared that he wouldn't have two more customers to clean up after in… twenty-seven minutes. When he looked down from the clock, his attention snagged on one of the two remaining customers.

The cute guy with the accent was back at his favorite table, tapping away at his ever present laptop. He was staring at Grant again. He was always looking. But the second he realized Grant was looking back, he'd blush hot and bright and bury his head behind his computer screen.

At least the pretty girl wasn't with him tonight. It was ridiculous that Grant had to fight off a surge of jealousy every time she walked in to drag the guy off… somewhere. The guy didn't even talk to Grant other than stumbling through his coffee order. Even if he did show any interest beyond the occasional, appreciative long look, Grant wouldn't act on his attraction. A man with no past had no future to offer anyone.

Until he figured out who the hell he is… was… Until he knew why he'd been found unconscious in an alley covered in bruises and cuts from a fight he'd obviously lost… Until he knew why his body was a damn road map of scars from an obviously violent life… Until he knew why every single piece of identification he'd had on him said Dalton Grant when the name felt like it belonged to someone else…

Until he had answers, he had nothing to offer anyone but danger and uncertainty.

When the bell above the door rang softly ,Grant sighed. Didn't people know caffeine this late was a bad idea?

He glanced up and the sigh turned into a grunt of annoyance. The girl was back with her bouncy ponytail and her irritating, unrelenting cheerfulness. Except, tonight, her mouth twisted into a concerned frown when she glanced in Grant's direction and she headed for the cute guy's table with unwavering determination.

Grant stopped wiping the clean counter and watched. Maybe he wasn't the only one who was a little unrealistically jealous.

She stopped by the guy's elbow and rubbed her fingers over the back of his neck. His shoulders relaxed but Grant's own muscles tightened, his hand squeezed the cloth it held in an uncomfortably tight grip.

"Fitz, we have to go."

The guy, Fitz, apparently, gave her a strained smile and pointed to his cup. "I still have half a cappuccino. Can't let caffeine go to waste."

She exhaled and dropped into the empty chair across from him. She glanced around and Grant dropped his head, pretending to be absorbed in his cleaning until she moved her attention on to the only other customer. Tucked away in the back corner, the man stared unseeingly out the window, seemingly lost in thought. Apparently, she decided they were secluded enough for whatever she had to say, because she put her elbows on the table and leaned forward.

"Fitz, this isn't doing any good. It could be dangerous."

"Which is exactly why I'm here," he hissed back. "I don't like this plan. I never have. And you can tell Coulson I said so."

Coulson.

The name pinged something deep inside Grant's head, but as soon as he tried to grasp it, it was gone.

"Coulson knows what he's doing. He's trying to make sure nothing bad happens, but even he has to follow regulations in this situation."

Fitz pinched his lips together, picked up his cup and leaned back.

"There's no regulation against having a cappuccino."

He took a deliberate sip and stared at her over the rim. She returned his stare with a dark look of her own and they locked into some silent battle of wills.

Grant had no idea what they were talking about, but he was pretty sure they shouldn't be discussing it in the middle of a public cafe. Even if the place was mostly empty. He glanced over and realized the customer had gone from disinterested to focused on Fitz and his friend while he tapped something into his phone. The way he'd shifted also revealed a distinctive bulge under his coat and Grant knew without a doubt it was a gun.

Instinct took over.

Keeping his eyes down and his left hand moving the dishcloth, Grant groped under the counter with his right. It took only seconds for his fingers to find the knife.

Not some cheap bread knife, either. One of the heavy, wicked looking blades he'd found hidden in his boots when the hospital had finally released him and his clothes. For some reason he didn't understand, but couldn't ignore, Grant had strapped it to the underside of the counter on his first day of work. The same instinct had him sleeping with its mate tucked under his pillow and booby trapping the window and door of his tiny studio apartment.

Considering the number of scars and old aches, he figured they were good instincts to listen to.

The bell jingled again and two men stepped inside. Wearing the same black coat with the same strange bulge as the customer in the corner. Only these two idiots were wearing sunglasses. At nine o'clock at night.

Fitz and the girl stiffened, eyes wide and obviously recognizing the danger. Just as obviously, they were too stunned to do anything but stare.

"Get down!" Grant shouted and, apparently, the two of them had enough survival instincts to listen, because they dove under the table in almost synchronized movements.

Once he was sure they were out of the way, Grant let instincts take over.

The knife ripped free and he was vaulting the counter before any of the three goons could react. He rushed the two by the door first, plowing into them before either got their hands inside their coats for their weapons. A couple of elbow strikes, a leg kick, a right cross and a headbutt had them both on the ground out cold.

"Look out!"

Grant spun in time to see Fitz crawling out from under the table and trying to tackle the third goon, whose gun leveled out at Grant's heart.

The goon easily sidestepped Fitz's awkward charge without letting his aim waver, grabbing the kid's collar and jerking him up to use as a shield. Grant stopped in his tracks.

"Fitz!"

The girl cried out and started to move but Grant snarled at her.

"Stay put."

The last thing he needed was to have to take care of two of them.

"Drop the knife and nobody has to get hurt."

Grant recognized the vicious glint in the gunman's eyes. Nobody _had_ to get hurt. But he was going to take a great deal of pleasure in hurting someone just because he could.

He raised his hands, but kept a tight grip on the hilt. "Look, I don't want trouble. I can't get in the safe but I'll give you everything we've got in the register."

He half turned away, pivoting so his back leg swung forward.

"Stop! Turn around. And drop the knife."

Grant let go of the hilt, swinging back around so his feet came together. The move had cost him his weapon, but he'd managed to get a couple of steps closer to the goon without spooking him.

"Whatever you say. But there's probably a few hundred in the till, easy."

"I'm not here for the money. We're here for you. I think you know that. Obviously, you remember more than you've been letting on. We'll all just stay right where we are until my boss gets here with back up."

Grant held Fitz's eyes for a hard second than glanced down sharply. When he looked back up, Grant was relieved to see Fitz swallow hard and nod very, very slightly. Whatever else happened here tonight, Grant was going to make sure the kid and his friend got out of here alive.

"It's all muscle memory," Grant said with a shrug his hands coming down closer to his waist. "You should see the scars. I've apparently been in a lot of fights. Your friends should be okay though. Probably come around any minute."

The goon automatically glanced beyond Grant's shoulder at the two crumpled forms in the doorway. The weapon shifted slightly away from his chest and Grant reset his weight. He slid one hand lower, pinky and ring finger curled against his palm, thumb, pointer and middle finger pointing straight down.

Fitz's eyes went to it automatically and Grant curled his thumb in. Then he smirked, folded down the middle finger and spoke.

"Of course, by the time they wake up, it will be too late to help you."

The last finger pulled into his hand and the world slowed around him for a few seconds.

The goon's attention snapped back to Grant, Fitz threw his body to the floor, tearing out of the unsuspecting man's grip and Grant moved forward in the split second of surprise, grabbing the wrist of the gun arm and twisting.

The son of a bitch managed to squeeze the trigger, though and searing pain scorched itself across his shoulder, until adrenaline drowned it out. He yanked again, bones giving way with a sickening pop. The gun dropped, the goon screamed then snarled and Grant didn't waste a second. Several hard, precise blows later and the goon had joined his friends in unconsciousness.

Swiping up the gun automatically, Grant turned to check on Fitz still sprawled on the floor and watching with wide eyed shock.

"Are you all right?" Then, remembering the girl, he glanced back to where she still huddled under the table. "Both of you?"

"Us?" Fitz choked out. "We're fine, thanks to you. You're the one who got shot."

He put a hand gently on Grant's elbow and shifted closer to get a better look. He was so close, Grant could smell the sweet, dark coffee he'd been drinking. If he turned his head an inch more his lips would brush the warm skin of Fitz's cheek.

"Jemma, come over here and take a look. I don't think it's too bad but flesh isn't really my area of expertise."

Grant blinked and reined the impulse in. Wrong time. Wrong place. Wrong life, as far as he knew.

The whoosh of the door opening behind them, yet again, had Grant on his feet in a heartbeat, body angled to block Fitz, gun in his good hand up and leveled at the two new comers. Middle aged non-descript looking man in an accountant's suit who didn't look fazed in the least to have a gun aimed at him. And an attractive Asian woman whose bland expression still managed to convey she was unhappy and unimpressed.

"It's okay," Fitz put a hand on Grant's good shoulder and patted awkwardly. "They're friends."

He knew it. Had known it before Fitz said so. He lowered the gun, secured it and tucked it away.

The man in the suit approached, lips drawn into a concern smile, eyes checking him over like a caged tiger. Grant just stared back.

"Do you know who I am?"

"Coulson." The name slipped out of his lips without thought. It wasn't just because he'd heard the name earlier. He _knew._ His eyes shifted to the woman securing the still unconscious men by the door, then the two who'd been in the cafe with him. "May. Fitz. Simmons."

Coulson's smile slipped into a more relaxed curve. "Good. Do you know who you are?"

He tried. He dug and a scrapped and searched but nothing came. "My ID says I'm Dalton Grant."

"But you don't believe it?"

He hesitated. He didn't really know these people. Didn't know if he should trust them. Yet… he did, anyway.

"No. The name doesn't… fit…" He couldn't find a better way to explain it. It was like a shirt that was too tight in the shoulders and too big everywhere else. He could wear it, but it was never going to feel right.

"I see."

Coulson's disappointment was obvious and palpable. Fitz stepped up closer, shoulder pressing against Grant's arm. "We're not leaving him here, sir."

"No," Coulson agreed. "No, we're not. I'll fix it. His memory is starting to come back, which is good enough, as far as I'm concerned."

"We should probably get out of here," Grant suggested. He toed the unconscious goon who'd held Fitz hostage. "He said his boss was on the way."

"Not a problem. Skye hacked his cell phone. The second he texted to say he'd found you, she back-traced it and found Juarez's location. A S.H.I.E.L.D team swept his headquarters fifteen minutes ago and picked him up, along with most of his operation as well as recovered the… contraband."

Skye and S.H.I.E.L.D.

Two more notes singing in his brain. Familiar and yet, still unknown. Juarez, his operation, it should mean something. But it didn't.

#

Grant didn't know what to expect when he followed the eclectic group out of the cafe, but the flying combination of tactical center, lab and college dorm wouldn't even have been on the list. Except that it was familiar. Every step inside brought back another memory.

Now he sat on top of one of the lab tables while Simmons cleaned and bandaged his wound, despite his insistence that he could take care of himself. Coulson stood off to the side giving him a sit-rep. Fitz hovered in the background, offering to fetch gauze or disinfectant while everyone ignored him.

"So we determined that Juarez had come into possession 0-8-4…"

The explanation of what, exactly, that was had him thinking maybe it was a prank after all, until a memory of Peru reminded him 0-8-4s were all too real.

"You went in undercover as part of the crew to get close to him. Unfortunately, Juarez got suspicious and you were ambushed by a group of his men. You were found by a passerby before we could get to you."

Coulson's eyes tightened and his voice dropped with regret. "When word got back that you had amnesia, we couldn't bring you in."

Simmons and Fitz made almost identical snorts of disgust. Good to know there were at least a couple of people weren't happy to see him go. If the way Skye had squealed and jumped him with a hug the second he stepped on the Bus was anything to go by, there were three people who missed him.

 "I convinced Fury to let us keep you under surveillance until you got your memories back." He gave FitzSimmons a quelling look, while Grant tried to slot the image of a terrifying man with an eye-patch into the patchwork of his life. "Unfortunately, S.H.I.E.L.D. is a little wary of compromised agents, after New York and… and Barton."

Coulson's voice caught slightly on the name, but no one else seemed to notice and Grant didn't ask.

His memories were coming back in a slow trickle. Unfortunately, it started with the ones he would have preferred to never have to deal with again. The dark hole that was his childhood once again took up residence in his soul.

So, he focused on trying to reabsorb the place and people around him. To make them more than names and flashes of memory out of context. At least he knew his name now. Grant Ward. Not that different from Dalton Grant. Yet all the difference in the world.

Simmons finished with the bandage and Coulson finished getting the information he needed from Ward for his report and the lab emptied out. Grant hopped off the table, shrugged on his shirt and started buttoning it up. He knew Fitz was still in the room, still fidgeting behind him. He knew his, Ward's, normal response would be to ignore him or gruffly dismiss him.

But Dalton Grant's reactions to the cute, accented cappuccino customer were still there as well. For the moment, those were the ones he wanted to listen to. So he waited patiently until Fitz cleared his throat.

"Uh, how are you doing?"

He looked up from his buttons to see Fitz wince at the inanity of his question.

So, instead of the sarcastic answer that sprang to his lips first, he shrugged with his good arm.

"Better."

"Are you remembering anymore?"

"Some. It's coming slowly. Your friend thinks I should get most of them back, eventually."

"Good. That's good." Fitz nodded absently, hands twisting. The familiar awkward conversation and hint of blush staining his cheeks the way it had nearly every day at the cafe.

Nearly every day. When it was obvious everyone else disapproved, at the least.

Ward blinked. "You were in the cafe all the time. Were we… were we something… before?"

The blushed flared from pink to hot red and Fitz stared down at his shoes. "No. I mean. Colleague. Friend. Sort of. We went on a mission together, once."

He remembered quiet confidence, determination. Irritating chatter that had become almost soothing over the course of their time together. Jealousy over a sandwich. Not all that different from the rush of irritation he'd felt every time Simmons had dropped down to sit with Fitz at his table in the cafe. Simmons. FitzSimmons.

"Right. I remember. You and Simmons are…"

Fitz's head shot up, eyes round with surprise.

"What? No. Friends. Best friends." He met Ward's eyes for the first time. Sincerity and nervousness shimmering brightly. "Just friends. Besides, Jemma can't take her eyes off of Skye."

"Oh." Ward started to suppress the smile, but then he relaxed his usual strict control. He let his lips twitch up and stepped forward, halving the distance between them. "Good."

Another step and they were so close, their bodies brushed. Fitz's eyes blinked and his lips parted. But he leaned forward. Leaned into Ward. He wasn't backing away.

Ward ran his hand up Fitz's arms, traced along his shoulders, slid his fingers into his hair and pulled him close.

Of course, that's when alarms started shrieking all over the Bus.

Ward groaned and dropped his forehead against Fritz's. Old instincts, pulsed _duty, duty, duty_. But new one's wanted something completely different.

"Fuck it," he growled, pressing his mouth hard against Fitz's. It was more of a promise than a kiss, over before it started. But it was a start. "Later. We'll finish this later."

Then he pulled away, checked his weapon and headed for the Command Center.

"Let's go."

 

<<<<>>>> 


End file.
